


our separated cities are joined to the night

by hihoplastic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lights in the studio are dim - it's after hours and Regina’s alone, just her and an empty room and maybe it's the way the light hits her hair from the street or the quietness or the delicacy of her movements, all those things combined, or none of them at all, but Robin is sure he’s never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our separated cities are joined to the night

**Author's Note:**

> \- for aregaloutlaw for OQ Secret Santa 2015!  
> \- title from Pablo Neruda

He isn't thinking about destiny the first time he sees her.

 

He isn't thinking about anything at all.

 

Everything has stopped - he can't even hear the singing from down the hall anymore, or the slightly off pitch note that had been excruciating not five minutes ago. He can't hear Will’s voice in his ear or the laughter of his friends because all his attention is on _her_.

 

The way her wrists move and her elbows bend and her head tilts to the side, line of her neck and the way her leg extends. She’s standing at the barre, going through a routine, seemingly lost in her own head.

 

He’s been to the ballet before. Saw the Nutcracker, took a few classes, gave it up for drums. Will dragged him to rehearsals all last year, hoping to entice a junior named Ruby into having a drink with him. He knows some of the dancers by name, has held polite conversation with a few more but he’s never seen _her._

 

Mary Margaret appears at his elbow - when did Will leave? - and leans forward around the doorframe.

 

“Isn't she beautiful?” she whispers.

 

Robin tries, he really does, to tear his eyes away. “I—what?”

 

She laughs softly, keeping her voice low, and smiles at him.

 

“Regina.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

Mary Margaret grins.  “Her name is Regina.”

 

“I've never seen her before.”

 

“She’s a first year.  I've tried to get her to come out with us, but she keeps to herself,” Mary Margaret says, but Robin barely hears her.  

 

The lights in the studio are dim - it's after hours and Regina’s alone, just her and an empty room and maybe it's the way the light hits her hair from the street or the quietness or the delicacy of her movements, all those things combined, or none of them at all, but Robin is sure he’s never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

 

“She’s…” Robin swallows.  “Very good.”

 

“And _you_ are very smitten.”

 

Robin blinks, startled, and turns to Mary Margaret.  “I haven’t even spoken to her.”

 

She smiles, patting his arm.  “Sometimes you just know.”

 

Robin frowns, watching as she walks away to rejoin the others, and when he turns back, Regina is staring at him, frozen with one hand on the barre.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Robin blanches, offering a short wave - _nice Robin, very smooth -_ and steps out of the shadows.  “Apologies.  I thought you were—” _Beautiful.  Enchanting.  Brilliant._ “—someone else.”  She says nothing, and he’s fairly certain she’s glaring at him, but he can’t bring himself to leave.  Not yet.  Stepping further into the studio, he makes a vague gesture in her direction.   “You're very good.”

 

“It’s Juilliard.  Everyone is very good.”

 

“Stunning, then.”

 

Regina turns away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and the gesture is so endearing Robin can’t help but smile.  “It's just a warm up.”

 

“At this hour?”

 

She shrugs. “It helps me clear my head.”

 

Robin nods, wandering around the room, close to the wall.  “I know the feeling. I sneak into the music rooms sometimes at odd hours.  It’s peaceful.”  

 

Regina frowns, eyes narrowed as she follows his movements, posture stiff, and he feels a bit guilty for interrupting her.  But she hasn’t asked him to leave, and he can’t quite bring himself to go voluntarily—something about her draws him in, even as he does his best to keep his distance.

 

“What were you listening to?” he asks, biting back a smile when her brow furrows, her nose scrunching adorably.

 

“What?”

 

He taps his temple. “In your head.  While you were… ‘warming up.’”

 

Regina’s mouth drops open slightly.  “I—Prokofiev.  Op. 64, the first suite.”

 

Robin grins to himself, pleasantly surprised by her choice.  “Do you mind?” He gestures to the piano in the corner of the room.

 

“You can play it?”

 

“With my eyes closed.”

 

Regina studies him for a moment, beautiful even in her suspicion.  She waits, longer than necessary, and he’s fairly certain she does it just to see him squirm.

 

“All right,” she says finally, “Just… don’t get in my way.”

 

Robin shakes his head, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes and he grins, sitting down at the piano. He messes around for a few barres just to see her huff, lips twitching before he moves seamlessly into Prokofiv.

 

Playing is harder than he expected, his gaze constantly drawn away from the keys, his mind distracted. Some of her hair has fallen out of its ponytail, brushing the ground when she bends forward, arm outstretched, feet turned out and legs pressed together.

 

He doesn't know the positions, French words jumbled in his head, and he has no idea even if her technique is all that incredible. He assumes, because she’s here, but it’s more about her movements, the look on her face, the grace and ease with which she shifts from one position to the next.  He’s always assumed that in dance, like in music, there are certain people who have _it_ \- that undefinable quality that puts them far above the rest.  That makes them genius.  Unique.  From James Taylor to Chopin, Willie Nelson to The Beatles.  

 

Whatever it is, she has it—there’s an air about her that makes it extraordinarily difficult to look away, to focus on anything else, and he winces every time he hits a sour note.   It’s only because he’s watching her so closely that he sees her lips twitch up, smirking at him, and he occasionally goes off, inserting bars from the Stones or Guns ‘n Roses just to annoy her.  She huffs everytime, looking up to glare at him, and the moment she does he shifts back, throwing her an innocent look.

 

It becomes somewhat of a game—Regina keeps requesting classical pieces, each more difficult than the last as she moves from barre work to the center of the studio to across the floor routines, leaps and waltzes and turns so fast he feels almost dizzy just watching.   

 

Robin, for his part, can’t help showing off just a bit, matching her requests—Listz’s _Hungarian Rhapsody #2,_ Prokofiev's 8th Sonata, and Thomas Ades’ _Traced Overhead_.  He throws her a glare at that one, huffing indignantly.

 

“Well now you’re just being mean,” he grumbles, but it’s good natured and she smirks, though seems impressed when he manages a few bars from the end of the piece without too many errors.  She lets him off the hook after that, telling him to play whatever he wants.

 

Unable to think of anything right away, he improvises, watching her out of the corner of his eye, slowing down or speeding up depending on her movements.  He inserts a few lines from old Jazz standards, his personal favorites, and she falters slightly when she recognizes _Blue Skies_.

 

“You like Berlin?”

 

“Ella Fitzgerald,” she admits, picking up where she left off.  

 

Robin smiles.  “One of the greatest.”

 

“Are you in the jazz program?” she asks, movements slowing enough to keep a conversation.

 

Nodding, he follows suit, switching to a slow, somber version of _Summertime_.  “Second year.”

 

“You’re good,” she says, somewhat grudgingly, he notices.

 

“It’s Juilliard,” he parrots.  “Everyone’s good.”

 

Regina throws him a half-glare, but her lips are curved upward just enough, and somehow he knows she isn’t really annoyed.  

 

“Inventive, then,” she amends, and Robin can’t help the grin that stretches his cheeks.

 

“I’ll take that.  Any more requests?”

 

She pauses, stretching for a moment before she asks, “Chopin’s _Nocturne in E Minor_?”

 

He nods, picking at a few notes and chords while she moves to the side of the studio and waits until she nods before starting. He’s amazed by the way her demeanor suddenly changes.  She’s no longer stiff and poised, but flows into the music like water, more emotion in her movements than he’s seen ever seen in a dance.  The choreography is beautiful, perfect for the piece, but it’s more than that—it’s her.  Her expressions, her grace, the sorrow in the piece made manifest in each sweep of her arm or turn of her head.  Some past pain in her eyes that makes him swallow.  Makes him look away.

 

It’s been awhile since he’s played this particular Nocturne, the last time just before he left home. Chopin has always been his mother’s favorite, and she’d cried every time he played for her, when his father wasn't home, always proud of him, always insisting he was destined for music.

 

His father never agreed—he took his guitar, took his drums, took everything except the piano that had belonged to his mother’s father, an heirloom she refuses to part with it. He’s sure she payed for it, somehow—sure she’s paying now, for helping him submit his application, for driving him to the airport, for tucking all the money she’d hidden away the last ten years in his coat pocket.

 

“Go,” she'd said, eyes bright with tears and a tremulous smile.

 

He’d tried one last time to protest, reluctant to leave her, but she’d refused, ushering him towards security, his ticket safely in his hands.  

 

“You’re meant for more than this, Robin,” she’d said, hugging him tightly, “And whatever happens, know that I’m proud of you.”

 

Eyes closed, he gets lost in the music, memories of his mother in every note, anger at his father pulling his fingers along until the end.  He stares at the keys for a long moment, at his hands, echoes of the last strains in his ears.  When it finally clears, he looks up to find Regina staring at him, her eyes bright in the weak lighting, lips slightly parted and one hand at her chest, fingers curled over her heart.

 

Robin blinks, shaking his head to clear it, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.  “It’s, ah.  Been awhile since I’ve played that.”

 

Regina swallows, eyes wide, and if he’s not mistaken, a single tear running down her cheek.  Robin shifts, rolling his sleeves back down - her gaze drops to his hands, to the tattoo on his wrist, and it seems to shake her out of her stupor.  

 

“I—” She clears her throat, lifting her free hand to brush back her hair.  “That was—” She falters, taking a single step towards him.  Brow furrowed, she tilts her head, studying him so closely he has to look away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head.  “Have—have we met before?”

 

Robin frowns, briefly considering it—he’s been at enough mixers so far this semester that it’s entirely possible, but somehow he can’t believe it, can’t imagine having seen her and _not_ approached her, in any scenario.

 

Smirking, Robin rises from the bench and pushes it in, closing the fall before stepping towards her.  He means to stop a respectful distance away, but something draws him in, close enough to touch, close enough that she has to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze.

 

“I doubt I'd ever forget meeting _you._ ”  

 

Her eyes widen but she doesn’t back away, and he could swear she leans forward, as drawn to him as he is to her.  Or at least, he hopes.   

 

“I didn’t catch your name.”

 

“Robin Locksley,” he says, “At your service.”

 

Regina almost laughs, then narrows her eyes when his expression doesn’t change.  “You're serious.”

 

Robin chuckles.  “My parents have a cruel sense of humor.”

 

“Obviously.”  She continues to frown, almost like she doesn’t believe him, and he holds up a hand to stop her from speaking.

 

“I've heard every joke.”

 

“I wasn't going to make one.”

 

He doesn’t know how long they stare at one another, Robin already half-way to besotted and Regina nearly unreadable.  But as he searches her face, he can just make out the barest hint of amusement, not at his expense, but _because_ of him, and it furthers his grin even more.

 

“Ah, good.  I’d hate for someone so enchanting to be predictable.”  

 

Regina snorts, but looks away, just as she’d done before.  “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t we?”

 

“I was hoping I could entice you to join me and my friends at _Jake’s_.”

 

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  “You want to have a drink?  Now?”

 

He shrugs, still smiling.  “I’d say we earned it.  Wouldn’t you?”

 

“For doing what we came here to?”

 

“Practicing at one o’clock in the morning wasn’t exactly on my agenda when I accepted,” he teases, but instead of snarking back, Regina flushes, expression flattening as she starts to move away.

 

“I don’t remember asking for a partner,” she snaps, and Robin touches her arm to still her.  

 

“You didn’t,” he says softly, “but you have one nonetheless.”

 

He hopes she can read the honesty in his expression, the apology in his tone.  She’s guarded, he’s gathered that much, but he can’t quite bring himself to care—her barbs only make her more attractive, and he admires the fire, her stubbornness.

 

She’s beautiful physically—dark hair and dark eyes and a lithe figure that betrays her strength—but there’s something else that draws him in.  

 

He’s never believed in fate.  Always thought ‘destiny’ and ‘providence’ were empty words, synonyms for letting life pass you by uncontested.  Circumstance, strategy, preparation, hard work, those are reliable.  Luck, maybe, or misfortune, but no one behind the curtain, no strings at his elbows. The world, he’s always thought, is far too full of chaos for anything to be predetermined.

 

But looking at her now, this woman he barely knows, he begins to hope.  

 

“I suppose you’re tolerable,” she says, looking him up and down, “for a musician.”

 

Robin huffs out a laugh.  “I never caught your name,” he says, unwilling to let her know he knows. It feels vaguely creepy, and while he hadn't hunted it down, he’d like to distance himself as much as possible from any stalkerly implications.

 

“I didn't give it to you,” she returns, slipping away.   He watches as she gathers her things, rolling down her sweatpants and exchanging her ballet slippers for a worn pair of boots.  She throws on a sweater and shoulders her bag, crossing back to where he stands, waiting.

 

“I need to be up at six, so I’ll have to pass on the drinks.”

 

Robin tries not to let his disappointment show.  “Perhaps another time?”

 

Regina tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.  “Perhaps.”

 

“Ah, but how will I know who to call upon without a name?”

 

She shrugs, hoisting the bag further up her shoulder.  “You seem resourceful.  I’m sure if you really want to, you’ll figure it out.”

 

From anyone else, he thinks, it would sound arrogant, but her voice is soft, a hesitancy beneath the bravado, and he knows it isn’t a test, but an escape.  An out, if he decides to change his mind, as she expects him to.  

 

“I will,” he promises, perhaps a touch too seriously.

 

She blinks in surprise at the honesty there, taking a small step back.  “We’ll see.”

 

Robin grins.  “I look forward to it.”

 

Regina exhales sharply, but she’s relaxed somewhat in his presence, still drawn to him in the same way he is to her, even as she glances towards the door.

 

“I need to go.”

 

“You can get home alright?”

 

She rolls her eyes, but seems a bit touched at his concern.  “I live in the dorms.”

 

“Excellent,” he says, brightening as he walks her to the door.  “My first clue.”

 

“Along with over 300 other students,” she reminds him.

 

He shrugs.  “As you said, I’m quite resourceful.”

 

She stops just outside the studio, blinking in the harsh lights from the hallway before her eyes adjust.  “I—thank you.  For the music,” she says after a moment.  “You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“It was my pleasure.  Milady,” he adds, giving a little bow.

 

Regina laughs, light and low but a laugh nonetheless, and Robin knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s lost.  That he has no choice.  A red string or a mighty hand or someone, some _thing_ , has led him here, to this woman at this moment.  He grins back at her, probably somewhat stupidly, but she doesn’t seem bothered.  Her expression softens into a small smile.

 

“Goodnight,” she says, and just as she turns, mutters, “Thief.”

 

“I heard that,” he calls after her, still smiling when she glances over her shoulder.

 

“You were meant to.”

 

He watches until she rounds the corner toward the elevator, then lets himself fall back against the wall with a heavy sigh.  

 

Looking down, he tosses her book—a French dictionary he’d lifted from her bag—in the air a few times, smirking to himself.  There’s no name, but on the inside she’s written, in ridiculously sharp penmanship, her school email address.  Not as good as a phone number, but he’ll take any excuse.  

 

Tucking it into his back pocket, Robin shoves off the wall, glancing at his watch as he makes his way towards the stairs.  His friends will still be out, and if he’s lucky, Mary Margaret will be with them—they might not be close, but she’s a chatty drunk (chatty all the time, he thinks) and the more he can learn about Regina before he sees her again, the better.  Because he wants to, he realizes—he wants to know everything.  He wants to know _her_ , whether it’s fate or luck or something else, something stronger.  He thinks of magnets, of gravity, of two chords in perfect harmony.   

 

Pausing before he exits out into the cold, Robin pulls out his cell phone, unable to resist.  

 

_Milady,_

 

_You ought to be more careful around thieves.  Never know when they might lift something.  Like your French book.  It’s safe in my custody, but if you’d like it back, the price is a drink.  Friday, 10 o’clock?_

 

_...or you can tell me to sod off, but I’d greatly prefer the former, if it’s your wish as well.  No pressure, I assure you._

 

_Robin_

 

He includes his phone number at the bottom and sends the email before he can think about it too much.  Does his best on the walk uptown not to psychoanalyze his own words or regret his use of ellipses.   _Get a grip, Robin_ , he mutters to himself, even while he keeps his hand in his pocket, hoping.

 

He hasn’t even made it to the bar when his phone buzzes, a new message from an unknown number.

 

_Quite clever, thief.  Sat, 11.  Dead Poet’s.  No book, no date.  I have a test Monday._

 

Robin grins and quickly types back,   _Who said anything about a date?  Perhaps I need a study buddy._

 

 _Coy doesn’t suit you,_ she replies, and then, in French, calls him a few creative names that make him laugh outright in the middle of the street.  

 

 _Very well, your MAJESTY_ , he retorts, a bit nervous when her reply takes more than a minute.  Finally, his phone lights up, a single sentence on the lock screen.

 

_I prefer Regina._

 

Grinning broadly, Robin types back quickly.  

 

_Lovely to meet you, Regina.  Until Saturday._

 

She doesn’t reply again, but she doesn’t need to.  Robin spends the remainder of the night—morning, really—in a delighted stupor.   He says nothing when his friends ask where he’d disappeared to, says nothing of his ‘date’—her words, not his—and he thinks he wants to keep her to himself.  Just for a little while.   

 

But he can’t quite escape Mary Margaret’s smirk, or her attention as she plops down onto a bar stool next to him.  “You’re looking rather giddy.”

 

“It’s been a good night.”

 

“I see.  I don’t suppose it has anything to do with a certain ballerina, does it?”

 

Robin says nothing, but can’t keep his face neutral, can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips at the thought of her.

 

Mary Margaret mock gasps, smacking his arm drunkenly.  “But you haven’t even spoken to her,” she parrots.  

 

Robin thinks of moonlight through windows and flushed cheeks and the arch of her spine.  Smiling, he merely shrugs.

 

“Sometimes, you just know.”


End file.
